The Last King of Scotland (1998)

by Giles Foden

  A slight frisson went through the congregation. Idi’s shoulders, I could see even from that distance, had tensed up.

  “A relationship consecrated in this manner should not be formed lightly, but advisedly, in fear of God, and for the purposes for which He, its Divine Author, has ordained the blessed state of matrimony.”

  The muscles in my back were already beginning to ache from the hard pew. I wanted to stand up and stretch. The strange idea came into my head that my body and Idi’s were connected. Like the King’s umbilical cord.

  “Let me thereby remind you, Idi and Medina, that your home will never be what God intends for it to be if you leave Him out of your relationship. As you are obedient to the Word of God, and allow God to control your relationship, your home will be the place of joy and testimony to the world that God intends. You must recognize that this covenant you are about to make is more than a legal contract…”

  I looked over at Marina again. She was looking in my direction, I could see the lashes of her eyes. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at the pillar.

  “…it is a bond of union established in heaven…”

  Those pillars. Scrollwork like a piece of sweet rock. All that Catholic stuff. I couldn’t be doing with it, not with my background. The whole place smelt over-ripe: God in the plaster, God in the wood of the pews. The incarnation of mortar. Hopeless. Or too hope-full, rather. As if one drop, half a drop even, of that blood-red wine would redeem any number of sins.

  “…and not to be broken on earth.”

  The first lesson was taken from Romans. Wasswa read it, his voice reedy and shaking. I swear I could see a hard gleam in the Archbishop’s eye as the words came out.

  Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently, he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgement upon themselves. For rulers hold no terror for those who do right, but for those who do wrong. Do you want to be free from fear of the one in authority? Then do what is right and he will commend you…

  Who is he? I thought, madly, as Swanepoel’s beard came into my field of vision, Swanepoel winking at me like a drunken sailor.

  Then the psalm, and another lesson, and the Gospel.

  When everyone said ‘Amen’, it sounded like ‘Amin’, and when the Archbishop proclaimed, “You stand before us as individuals redeemed by Christ,” I thought of those drops of blood and of my dead father.

  “We are free,” he used to say, “and we are not free. That is the mystery. It is mystical but it is also scientific. Biology, society, God knows what else (and He does), are pushing us in this or that direction all the time. And yet we can choose, also. It’s like that new motorway. You’re on it, like it or not, but you can come off it at a junction – should God will there to be one where you want one – and take another road. But it’s still His road. Do you understand, Nicholas? Do you understand that when people say there is no mystery in the Presbyterian church, they’ve totally misunderstood? There is a mystery and it’s a scientific mystery an’ all.”

  This was his standard line, God as civil engineer, and it provoked much mirth amongst the congregation of Fossiemuir.

  As if in divine confirmation of my train of thought, when Idi stood up for the vows, he was wearing a kilt. The sea-green jacket was just part of the Highland get-up, spats and sporran, skean-dhu and brogans…the full, romantic, nonsensical lot, the same as I had seen in the mountains.

  And then the questions.

  “Are you prepared to love Medina as Christ loved the Church, are you willing to love…”

  I looked round the walls, at the tableaux of the Stations of the Cross, representing the successive stages of Christ’s Passion. The folds of cloth and angular faces jutted out in plaster relief. They were painted in bold, relentless colours: one could not doubt (and yet one could) that this was blood, that this was wood, that this spear would pierce flesh, this sponge drip vinegar that really stung. To me, they did seem a little theatrical, but they were moving, for all that. My father wouldn’t have agreed, however.

  “In the full knowledge that this love is not to be diminished by difficult circumstances, and it is only to be dissolved by death, will you now speak your marriage vows?”

  “I have prayed you as my wife,” Amin said, “and the god has truly answered my prayers. I have talked to him straight – ”

  The Archbishop interrupted – “you praise and thank Him for His faithfulness for I have delighted in knowing you and loving you…”

  “Yes, that is the correct, for I have delighted in knowing you and loving you…”

  “If these vows be discharged, they will add to the happiness of life, lightening by dividing its inevitable sorrows and heightening by doubling all its blessedness. But if these obligations be neglected and violated, you cannot escape the keenest misery as well as the darkest guilt. What token do you give of the vows you have made?”

  “This ring.”

  “The ring that symbolizes the never-ending love you have pledged: for that love – a perfect circle as far as the eye can see, and for that love also – gold, as the emblem of that which is least tarnished and most enduring. Through these rings, let the light of Christ shine upon you for all of your life together, delighting in the society of each other as you conduct yourselves by His law. For it is also true that rings have, in history, been the traditional sign of authority, used to seal documents and sign proclamations. Before you exchange rings, will you therefore accept the authority of Christ in your life?”

  I will. I willed Amin to say ‘I will’ but I didn’t hear it. Just a muddled and hardly audible –

  “I accept the authority of the god…”

  Then the Prayers of the People and – crowning moment – the Blessing of the Union.

  Idi rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. No words came out.

  “I do, I do.” The Archbishop muttered insistently.

  “I do.” Finally it came.

  I looked for Marina, but all I could see was the back of Swanepoel’s head.

  “Medina, your husband is going to look to you for encouragement, cheerfulness and confidence…”

  “I do.”

  Quietly, like the brush of a hand.

  “…I charge you both before God, the Searcher of all hearts, and before the Lord Jesus Christ, who shed His precious blood to redeem you from sin, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in marriage, you do now confess it. For be well assured that if any persons are joined together otherwise than as God’s word allows, their union is not blessed by Him. Equally, if any person present here today…”

  I smiled to myself. It wasn’t likely.

  “Ministering in the name of the Lord Jesus, I now pronounce you husband and wife. May Christ be the head of your home. May He be the unseen guest at every meal, the listener to every conversation. May Christ’s love rule your hearts and lives. You may now kiss the bride…”

  Idi craned over her, like a boy biting an apple.

  Then the Archbishop blessed them. Once that was over, the rest of the Mass felt like an anticlimax. I stole the odd glance at Marina during the closing hymn. Our eyes met for one moment but she turned away, and as I followed the crowd out after the Recessional – Idi sweeping by with a look like thunder – I lost sight of her.

  Her attitude having put me in a sour mood (which was, I know, more than a little unfair on her), I decided to miss the big reception that had been laid on at the Imperial Hotel. According to the Argus, they had killed 300 goats and made 70 vats of curry – of which, as I have said, I am not fond.

  Driving back home, I thought about the new wife. She had light-coloured skin and the gossip was that Amin’s nickname for her was Kahawa: coffee in Swahili. As well as being in the dance troupe, she was the of
ficial ‘face of Uganda’ on tourist material, though I had heard that she was to be deleted now they were married. Poor girl, I suspected she would not derive much pleasure from that relationship. Amin’s sex life struck me as likely to be, if not monstrous, then rather tender and geriatric. With a body that size, one imagined that the only genuine pleasure he could get was to lie on his back and let the world spin about him.

  Medina would take her place within his households, I supposed, much to the irritation of the other wives, who had enough problems competing for his attention as it was. Sometimes, looking out of the bungalow window, I saw them walking in the gardens, chattering and arguing like a bunch of schoolgirls. Only one of them actually lived at State House, but they all got together from time to time. They were of different ages, but the situation was so confused that I was still not quite sure which was which, having been introduced only at functions when they were all togged up in white robes and turbans and difficult to distinguish. So I made some enquiries of Wasswa on the matter, and this, it seemed, was about the sum of it:

  Wife Number One: Malyamu, a schoolteacher’s daughter. Six foot tall. First love of the then army sergeant, who fathered a number of children on her before paying the bride price (after the old fashion) in 1966, to formalize the engagement.

  Wife Number Two: Kay, a student at Makerere University, and daughter of a clergyman. The ceremony (also in 1966) took place in a registry office, though Kay did wear a wedding dress. Amin, Wasswa said, was in army uniform.

  Wife Number Three: Nora, a girl from Obote’s Langi tribe. This (1967) was by all accounts a political marriage, its purpose to persuade Obote that Amin was not plotting against him.

  Wife Number Four: Medina…

  25

  As the months went by, Idi began to take me into his confidence more and more. He would phone me up – he loved the telephone, that man – and as often as once a week I would find myself dragged away from Mulago to perform some task entirely nonmedical in character. Such as briefing the many journalists, mainly British but latterly Americans and Germans, too, who came to see the President during this time, or talked to him over the phone. From time to time they would turn up at a designated hotel or at one of Amin’s residences, with their train of rubber leads, bulky black television cameras on their shoulders and spongy microphones on spear-like poles.

  Inevitably, they’d prod him into saying some outrageous thing or other. I remember how they knelt down in front of him, some fiddling with their equipment, some scribbling in little notebooks with spiral wire bindings. They always wore light brown, or even khaki, as I recall, and sometimes it seemed as if one soldier was interviewing another.

  Except for on one occasion I remember, when Idi – all his elephantine bulk – was stuffed into an orange jump-suit. We were in the banqueting room at State House. The dark wooden table had been pushed against the wall, like a longboat moored at a quayside, and Idi sat in the displaced carver chair, with a semi-circle of journalists in front of him.

  “This is my astronaut suit,” he announced, as the press conference began. “I will wear it when Uganda goes to the moon. I have been having words with NASA, and they say it is possible for me to be the first black man to go there.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I am serious,” Amin protested. The collectively dour, bewhisk-ered gaze of the governor-generals seemed to say otherwise, as they frowned down from their portraits on the unfolding scene.

  “Mr President, do you sleep with all of your wives at once?” began one of the journalists.

  “You are a very cheeky man.”

  Everyone laughed again. I noticed that there were a bunch of thuggish aides – probably State Research Bureau men – standing at the back of the room, under the crested-crane dish. The latter needed a polish, having become tarnished and covered with verdigris.

  A correspondent from one of the US networks put up his hand. “Why did you expel the Israelis from Uganda, after all they had done for you in terms of building roads and supplying aircraft to the Uganda Air Force?”

  Amin looked surprised, as if it was inconceivable that anyone could ask such a question. I thought of Sara, her feet – their thonged skin the colour of olive oil – in my sandals, the feeling of her long hair brushing across my chest.

  “Because Arab victory in the war with Israel is inevitable and the Prime Minister Mrs Golda Meir’s only recourse was to tuck up her knickers and run away in the direction of New York and Washington. Also when the Israelis were in Uganda, yes, the Americans and the Israelis made Uganda the headquarters of the CIA in Africa. If you see Mrs Meir, tell her I am not a person who fears anyone. I am over six foot tall and a former heavyweight boxing champion. When Muhammad Ali finished with George Foreman across the border in Zaire, I told him, come and fight me now in Uganda. But he was too scared!”

  They all scribbled furiously. For a moment the room was silent except for the sound of rustling paper and the faint hum of camera equipment.

  The Daily Mirror reporter broke the silence. “How do you find it, being President of Uganda?” he asked.

  “It is very hard, but I like it very much and enjoy it very much. One must have a very good brain, work very hard and not be a coward. But I love Uganda and was given the insight to lead the country, so it is OK.”

  “Why did you ask Britain to supply you with Harrier jets?” asked the Sunday Times stringer, a tough-looking Rhodesian. His accent reminded me of Swanepoel’s clipped South African tones, though I seemed to recall him telling me that a native of either country wouldn’t think they were similar. Well, not a real one…So many traps and pratfalls in describing these things.

  “I was sincere,” Amin replied. “I asked the Defence Secretary in my meeting with him. I had to go and attack South Africa. I asked them even for a destroyer and an aircraft carrier so I could move on to South Africa with ultimate force. The common enemies of all Africa are South Africa and Rhodesia. Military might will eventually displace the racists from Southern Africa. Imperialists will face fire. A truly volunteer African army is already being raised to fight unless Pretoria and Rhodesia give majority rule to their black populations. A division of thousands of South African exiles has been trained and is ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Some of these people are already there and are simply awaiting the green light from me.”

  “Will you therefore be joining the Communists in South Africa, to fight against the apartheid regime?”

  “Oh no! I am very grateful for the free gifts such as tanks, mobile trucks, guns and fighter planes that the Soviet Union has given me, but I am not a puppet. No way. I don’t dance for criminals who try to act like the Vice-President of Uganda. The Soviet attitude is equivalent to me going to Moscow to advise what policy to follow in Czechoslovakia.”

  He got up and started walking around in the space between the carver chair and the knees of the journalists – like a schoolmaster, or a football manager giving a pep talk.

  “It is always the same. Everyone is always telling me what to do. Even the Israelis, when they were on my side in the great struggle with Obote, told me to liquidate all people in the army who were opposing me. They did tell me that, you know. In all truth. Their agents and the British ones, too, they helped me with the coup. Though I could have done it on my own, without him.”

  I wondered vaguely whether he was referring to Stone. Or Weir. Probably both. Amin started to run on the spot and box the air in front of the journalists.

  “Yes, though the British also have told me many bad things. When I thought they were a good people. BBC, you must say it. Though I know very well that you are the voice of the British Empire, a criminal organization which I have conquered and which was built by the sweat and labour of people in chains. Ugandans. Kenyans. Tanzanians. Burmese. Even Scots.”

  With mention of each of these nations came a forceful punch into the air until, with the last, Amin collapsed back into his seat, breathing heavy as a bull, his legs wide apa
rt. There was silence as we stared at him, the orange fabric of the jump-suit staggered here and there by the black plastic wires and other gadgets that were attached to it.

  “How do you feel about being surrounded by so many pro-Communist states?” said the American, eventually. “Does it make you nervous?”

  “Well, yes, you are right. It is quite tough. You see, we are not Communist here in Uganda. I very much want the wananchi to be free. In Communist countries like Tanzania, you do not feel free to talk: there is one spy for every three people. Not here. No one is afraid here. It’s like Ugandan girls. I tell them to be proud, not shy. It’s no good taking a girl to bed if she is shy…Do you get my point?”

  He laughed, and a barrage of flash bulbs went off. It was a favourite trick to print pictures of him laughing maniacally. That Prince-of-Darkness, dead-of-night laugh he pulled off so well.

  “What is your policy attitude to the United States, Field Marshal Amin?” the American asked.

  “I love the American people very much and I love Ford very much also. But I wish to alert him to a situation fraught with dangers, namely the position of black people in his country. He is aware Africans were kidnapped from Africa by whites and forced against their will to leave their motherland and to go in chains to the United States. For the smooth running of his country, President Ford must not discriminate against them. Not only should he appoint them to high offices in his White House staff but he should also appoint them as secretaries of state. They are entitled to their rightful share in the running of the country.”